Cassada

by James Salter

  “You idiot,” she said.

  Cassada was holding a bottle by the neck, foam pouring over his hand. Standing up straight then, unsteady, “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said.

  “What’s the matter with you?” The front of her dress was wet. She was holding it away from herself.

  Cassada had come around the table and offered her his handkerchief. “Here, use this, Mrs. Dunning.”

  “You use it.”

  With the handkerchief still folded in a square, he bent down and began stroking. Mayann held her dress taut.

  “Just stick to the wet spots,” she said. She could see him blush. He looked up.

  “I’m really sorry, Mrs. Dunning. Can I pay to have it cleaned?”

  She disregarded this.

  “Can I get you a glass of champagne?” he asked.

  “Instead of just pouring it on me, you mean?”

  He didn’t know what to say. “I’m really sorry.”

  He held the bottle in both hands while he poured, the bottom against his stomach. “Here you are,” he said politely.

  The champagne made it a party. Lank-haired and whispering Ferguson was inviting the singer to ride into town with him on his motorcycle after the band finished. Harlan was talking to her, too. The gleam of her bare shoulders was drawing them to her, the white dress. The bachelors were in their glory. They were standing against the wall, singing and spilling champagne over themselves, shaking the bottle with a thumb over the top and then spraying it around, faces wet as swimmers’. The singing got louder and cruder. The bar closed but nobody left. Finally the club officer came by.

  “It’s all right,” Dunning told him with a confident air.

  “Certainly, Major,” the club officer said. He just wanted them to watch out for the furniture.

  “We’re not going to hurt it,” somebody said.

  They were certainly spilling enough champagne, the club officer remarked.

  “Ahh,” Cassada muttered, “so that’s where it’s going.”

  Dunning, undisturbed by the incident of the champagne, put an arm around Cassada’s shoulders. The singer was gone. She had sneaked out after the final number with a bandsman’s coat around her. “Well, how do you like the squadron, son?”

  “I guess I like it fine.”

  “You guess? What the hell! Don’t you know you are in the best goddamn squadron in the Air Force. You guess? Let me tell you something, people would kill to be in the spot you’re in. The best squadron and the best planes. Captain Isbell!” he called. “Who the hell is this man?”

  “He’s a new lieutenant we’ve got.”

  “Tell me his name again.”

  “Lieutenant Cassada.”

  “Is that your name?”

  “Yes, sir,” Cassada said.

  “Don’t you know anything?” Dunning demanded and squeezed Cassada’s shoulder as hard as he could, even grimacing as he did so.

  In the November afternoon, deep blue, the clouds immaculate and tall, over the radio came a warning, first on tower frequency, then on that of each of the squadrons, repeated urgently, over and over,

  “Attention, all 5th Group aircraft. Attention, all 5th Group aircraft. You are advised to return to base immediately. Return to base immediately.”

  Snow showers had been reported moving in from Luxembourg. The field was expected to go down to five hundred and one—five-hundred-foot ceiling and one-mile visibility—within twenty minutes.

  Cassada was flying with Dumfries. They were at altitude about thirty miles out, the ground only occasionally visible through the solid, white clouds. They were in spread formation and Dumfries, who was leading, did not turn homeward but seemed to ignore the call.

  “Green Lead, did you hear that?” Cassada said.

  “Uh, negative. I couldn’t read it. My radio is cutting in and out.”

  “They’ve ordered us to return to base. The weather’s closing in.”

  “Roger,” Dumfries said.

  “They say it’s going to five hundred and one within twenty minutes. Snow showers.”

  “Close it up, Two,” Dumfries instructed.

  Dumfries was completely without imagination, mechanical in his processes. Twenty minutes was to him an exact figure, a time when the ceiling would come down like the curtain in a theater. His nickname was Dum-dum, which he complained made no sense. “That’s a kind of bullet,” he said.

  When Cassada joined up on his wing, Dumfries said, “Go Channel Eight, Green.”

  His own head went down as he looked to check that he had gone to the right channel, and almost at the same time he heard Cassada say, “Green Two.”

  “Roger.”

  They were at twenty-five thousand feet and began to let down. As they descended they could hear ships from the other squadrons entering traffic, calling on the break. From time to time the tower would block them out: “Attention, all 5th Group aircraft. Snow showers are reported north and west of the field, closing in. You are advised to return and land as soon as possible.”

  Cassada, hearing it—the calls, the other formations inbound—still new to it, felt a kind of electric happiness, a surge of excitement. Their speed was building. The air was heavier and more dense as they came down, nearing the cloud tops, then skimming them. He was confident they would get back to the field and at the same time felt a nervousness; it was in his arms and legs. The radio was alive with voices. From all directions planes were coming home.

  As if following an actual path, Dumfries banked this way and that between the clouds and soon they were in the shadowy zone beneath, the brightness gone.

  “Green has two at ten o’clock,” Cassada called.

  “I’ve got ’em.”

  Ahead the field appeared and like this, part of the instreaming pairs and flights of four, they entered traffic aware they were being observed like all the others, broke hard—some damp days it was possible to pull streamers, long, snake streaks of vapor pouring from the wingtips—came around and landed.

  Though they had done nothing more remarkable than return without delay to the field, the repeated ominous warnings from the tower, the solid advancing wall of snow already visible, the many planes, some of them close behind, others breaking at the last minute overhead—all of it made for a feeling of achievement. It was as if they were returning from an actual mission, Cassada thought, a combat mission. He had missed all that, the thing that gave the major, the flight commanders, Isbell, even some of the pilots a greater authenticity. To return and land smoothly, in triumph.

  Canopies open they taxied back towards the squadron at the other end of the field. There was a wood and wire fence to the side most of the way and beyond it the wide fields broken into clods and dark with manure. The smell in the air was the cold though. The first flakes of snow were already falling. The wind was from behind and warm waves of exhaust were blown forward together with the thin whistle of engines idling. Halfway along the fence, two drably dressed boys were standing motionless, hands in their pockets, their white faces plain to see, even the blotched red of their cheeks. Great as limousines the planes passed by them, bumping slightly on the expansion joints in the concrete. Tentatively, as if it might be ignored, one of the farmboys waved and Cassada, a god, arm resting on the cockpit railing, raised it and waved back. He was at last all he had dreamed of. The wave, he knew, had been recognition. Both boys were waving now, their arms jerking wildly. Dumfries had not seen them.

  Cassada’s parking spot was at the far end of the line. Dumfries waited at the edge of the ramp as he came trotting, his helmet still on to keep his ears warm. The snow was coming down harder. To the west it was white, earth and sky had vanished. It was a dry snow, small and hard, blowing along the ground like ashes, consuming the trees. The only place it was sticking was in the grass.

  Joking, feeling good, they hung up their equipment and went into the briefing room, working the cold out of their faces.

  “Wow,” Cassada said, grinning.

 
“Good thing you heard that call, ordering us back.”

  “You wouldn’t think it could go bad that quick. The weather.”

  Wickenden had walked in behind them carrying some letters he’d just received in his hand. He stood there, flicking the envelopes with his thumb.

  “We just barely beat it in here, Captain,” Cassada told him excitedly. “You could see the snow, big wall of it, right out to the west.”

  “I don’t know about beating it in,” Wickenden said, “but when you pulled out of here you blew stuff all over the place. You must have been using ninety percent.”

  “No, sir,” Cassada said.

  “Don’t say, ‘No, sir.’ I was watching it. I saw a pair of chocks go flying twenty feet.”

  “No, sir,” Cassada told him. “I don’t know how much I used, but it wasn’t over fifty or sixty. It wasn’t even that.”

  “The hell it wasn’t.”

  “It was fifty or sixty percent at most.”

  “Would you like to make that an official statement?”

  “Official statement?”

  “Yes. You know what that is? You can get court-martialed for making a false official statement.”

  “I’ll make any kind of statement you want.”

  “Just watch what you’re doing,” Wickenden warned. He left the room.

  Cassada looked down at his shoes. He kicked a little at something that wasn’t there. Then, silent, his face expressionless, he began to take his flying gloves off, intent, pulling at the tip of each finger with his teeth to loosen the clinging leather.

  “Well . . .” Dumfries began.

  Cassada glanced at him.

  “You’ll get used to it,” Dumfries said. “That’s just the way he is.”

  Cassada said nothing. Finally he let out a sigh.

  They stood near one of the radiators and talked about the flight, the earlier part of it. The snow was coming down more and more densely, curling as it neared the ground, sweeping along. Cassada was looking at it moodily, nodding every so often at something Dumfries said.

  “Don’t let it bother you,” Dumfries advised toward the end.

  “It isn’t that,” Cassada said after a moment. He slapped his gloves against his leg, staring blankly at the spot. “It’s not just that. If he doesn’t want to believe me, then don’t ask me. It’s the same as being called a liar. I’m not a liar.”

  “That’s just the way he talks. It’s different than in the other flights.”

  Dunning sat down in Isbell’s office with a broad smile, laced his fingers across his stomach, and stretched out his legs. He had been looking at the flying time chart. “We got them this month, all right, Tommy,” he said.

  “Yes, sir. I think we do.”

  “Wait till Pine finds out.”

  It was the end of the month. They had outflown everyone, the yellowtails especially. “It would be nice to beat them for the year,” Dunning added.

  “If we get the maintenance.”

  Dunning nodded sagely as if he knew something about that.

  “Well, Friday night,” he said, gathering himself. “You getting up to the club before long?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  There were a few things left to be attended to and the last flight had yet to land. Isbell sat working at his desk. There was the faint sound of the adding machine in the outer office striking out sums in bursts. The operations clerks would be working late. He was looking out the window when there was a knock.

  “Are you busy, Captain?” Cassada, slightly reticent, stood in the doorway. “I’d like to talk to you for a minute if I could.”

  “Sure. What’s on your mind?”

  “Is it all right if I close the door, sir?”

  Isbell was still looking out the window. He turned his head. “What for?”

  “It’s something that I . . . it’s something personal.”

  “It is, eh?” Isbell said unconcernedly.

  He thought he heard them then and glanced out the window, then turned once more to Cassada who was wearing—Isbell was a little surprised by it—a look of impatience. “Sit down. What’s the problem?”

  “I wanted to ask about something. Maybe I should have come in sooner.” He paused. “The thing is, ever since I’ve been in the squadron . . .”

  “Which is what, all of three months?”

  “Almost.” Cassada began again: “When I started flying here it was with Lieutenant Grace and his flight.”

  Isbell felt a certain resentment rising in himself. “Yes. Grace had you for transition.”

  “I really learned a lot from him.”

  Cassada was looking down at his hands. “I wondered if there was a chance of my being put in his flight. I mean, if it wouldn’t make too much difference. I think I’d pick up quite a bit from him.”

  “I’m sure you would.”

  Cassada looked up, uncertain at the tone. “To tell the truth I sort of expected—I suppose it was wrong because nobody had said anything to me one way or the other—to be in his flight from the beginning.”

  “Why?” Isbell said. He heard and saw them, coming along the main taxiway, gliding like ghosts, like something borne on a river, through the fading light. The sound rose as they came closer, slowing.

  “Well, because I’d flown with him all along.”

  The last ones were down. All was as it should be. Freed of concern then, fully attentive, “Just because I’m curious,” Isbell said, “why did you wait until now to come in here?”

  “I guess I shouldn’t have.”

  “What is it, three or four weeks you’ve been in Captain Wickenden’s flight now?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The last two planes were entering their hardstands, the crew chiefs skipping backwards as they came, waving them around in a tight, fetal turn, the engine cut even before the wheels came to a stop. The sound escaped, piercing and faint. It fell to nothing, to a deep, full silence.

  “Well, what made you suddenly decide?” Isbell repeated. “There must be a reason.”

  Was it possible Isbell did not know what Wickenden was like, how overbearing, Cassada thought in confusion. Would he be angered to hear? “I guess I didn’t have the nerve.”

  “The nerve?”

  Cassada was silent.

  “You can learn just as much about flying right where you are, if that’s what you’re really worried about. Maybe more.”

  “That’s just it,” Cassada insisted.

  “What?”

  “I think I’d do better. In fact I’m sure of it.”

  “Grace already has four men in his flight. If you were in it there’d be five and Wickenden would have three.”

  “I thought maybe there could be a switch. I might be able to get someone to agree to change.”

  “No,” Isbell said instead of “Just try.” “There’s not going to be any change.”

  “Captain, I . . .”

  Isbell made a gesture of what more do you want?

  “Maybe I didn’t explain it right.”

  “No, that’s all. I have work to do.”

  A few minutes after Cassada had gone, Isbell picked up his cap and walked out of the office himself. There, inspecting the time chart with a grave air stood Wickenden, finishing a cigarette. “A lot of hours this month,” he commented when Isbell was standing beside him.

  “Yeah.”

  Some ashes had fallen to the floor near Wickenden’s foot, Isbell saw. He’d been there for a while. It was hard to know for how long. “We’ll be the top squadron this month,” Isbell said, watching for a hint in Wickenden’s face.

  “Pine is probably holding back fifty hours till the last day.”

  “I know. He usually does. We figured that in.”

  “Ridiculous.”

  “Sure. It’s a game.”

  “Next month we’ll fall on our face.”

  “Next month is Tripoli.”

  “Oh, that’s right.”

  “Coming to th
e club?”

  Wickenden seemed still engrossed in the figures, the names of the pilots, how many hours each had flown, the total for each flight easily calculated. Isbell stared at the firm profile.

  “I suppose I’m expected to,” Wickenden said.

  In the car he sat looking straight ahead, pointedly disaffected. How much he might have heard was hard to guess. Perhaps it was only his suspicions. He was slow to reveal himself, sometimes it took months. Sometimes he brought up things long past as if they had happened the day before. He began whistling through his teeth as they drove, difficult, touchy as an old dog. My ranking flight commander, Isbell thought wearily. The most experienced.

  Some colonel up from Landstuhl had his 300SL parked below. They were admiring it from Harlan’s room. They could see down into the rear window, the seats, tan leather and soft.

  “They hand rub the lacquer between coats,” Godchaux said.

  It was after lunch. Harlan was picking his teeth.

  “I like that color,” Godchaux said.

  “Maroon fades,” Harlan said. Cars held no mystery for him. He had changed transmissions lying on his back in the hard dirt.

  “There isn’t a car that can touch it,” Godchaux said.

  “What does a car like that cost?”

  “A lot.”

  “How much?”

  “Six thousand dollars in Stuttgart. They guarantee you can do a hundred and fifty when you leave the factory.”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “It’s a fact. Look at it. Look at the way it’s humped over even standing still. They put the engine in there on an angle. It’s canted. It’s not straight up and down. That’s so they can keep the hood low.”

  “What’s wrong with that Mercury you have?”

  “It practically shakes to pieces at ninety.”

  “That’s the roads over here,” Harlan said.

  “Even on the autobahn.”

  “Well, if I had six thousand dollars I wouldn’t be buying that. I don’t see the point of driving around in a year’s pay.”

  “What a feeling, eh?”

  “It looks fine, but what can you do in it that you can’t do in yours?”